The Minister's Daughter
by QueenofConstellations
Summary: Years after the Order of the Phoenix surrenders, Hermione Granger finds out that she is not a Muggleborn at all, and, in fact, she'd been fighting her relatives this whole time. She returns to Wizarding London to meet her true father. Pureblood!Hermione and sort of Dark!Hermione. Blaise/Hermione and Dramione
1. Chapter 1

Hermione leaned heavily into her booth, her glass of firewhiskey just barely lingering at the edge of her fingertips. She ordered it mostly so she wouldn't look suspicious, and she didn't want to drink it before her companion arrived, lest she forget important details, muddle up her explanation, and botch this entire enterprise. Still, she had endured a difficult enough few days that she ached to drink to excess, to forget what she learned, to erase those details from her mind forever.

Her father was not her father; her heritage, the one she was so proud of, was not hers to claim anymore. It was all a lie, fabricated by her mother and father, used to keep her safe for twenty-two some-odd years. How amusing (in an existential, completely unamusing type of way) that it would all come crashing down like this.

Against her better judgement, Hermione took a long swig from her glass of firewhiskey, rationalizing that she surely couldn't get drunk from one sip, and she deserved it, dammit. It tasted like ash, she reflected numbly, swallowing it anyway. How appropriate.

"Hermione Granger, drinking alone?" his voice was just as baritone, just as silky as she remembered. "My, my, what an interesting specimen."

Blaise Zabini slid into the booth across from her, motioning wordlessly to the bartender for something with just two fingers. Hermione watched him do it bitterly, already wishing she'd been at least half drunk for this. He tilted his head to take her in, the same way he always looked at her, but this time he looked like he pitied her. The thought made her sick. She mirrored his movement, taking in the pressed dark purple robes and handsome face, devoid of even a hint of stubble. She knew she looked far more wretched, in her Muggle jeans and tank top, but that's what living in exile did to you, she supposed.

"So which god did I please in order to get an owl from Miss Hermione Granger, fugitive war criminal? I figured you and your lot would still be in Stockholm," the bartender slid a glass of red wine so dark it could have been blood over to him, and he cradled it delicately. "It took me hours to decode your message, by the way. You're lucky I didn't give up."

"Do you always talk like this?" she asked, polishing off her firewhiskey.

"Eloquently, beautifully, like an aristocrat?" Blaise sipped from his glass so shallowly he might as well have not sipped at all. "Absolutely."

"Can we just get on with it?" she asked. "I didn't come here to have a drink with you."

"And yet, here you are," he said, his long index finger indicating her empty glass. She scowled even deeper, and he finally relented. "Fine. Why exactly did you contact me? You have some news you'd like to trade for a day pass back to Wizarding London? I'm sure Minister Rosier would be okay with that."

"I'm not here for your Dark Lord or your idiotic Minister," she hissed, careful to keep her voice low.

"Careful now, Miss Granger, you're not so beautiful, intelligent, or important that someone won't take offense to your words," his charm was suddenly gone, and for some reason, that comforted Hermione more. "Why are you here, then?"

"After the war…ended," she hesitated over the word, "I went to find my parents where I hid them, so I could remove their memory charm. After I did, I explained to them what happened, and why they could never return to their home. My mother, upon hearing that your side was, for lack of a better word, victorious –"

"Of course there's no better term, that's exactly what we were –"

"Decided to tell me the truth," she continued like he hadn't spoken. "Her real name is Penelope Parkinson –"

"Holy shit –"

"She is a Squib, cast into the Muggle world by her family when they realized her magical powers would not manifest in a way that was conducive to keeping the family honor intact," Hermione spat. "And my father –"

Suddenly, her words were gone. It was bad enough to be related to Pansy fucking Parkinson, but the rest of it? The rest of it was unbearable. At least with a Squib mother, she could still claim that she was mostly Muggleborn, if she wanted. She could, in much the same way the rest of the Wizarding world would, claim that with no magical powers, her mother was not really a witch. She could pretend that nothing changed.

"So you're a half-blood?" Blaise asked, his wine all but forgotten. "As interesting and surprising as that is, I'm not sure what that means for me."

She shook her head, trying to figure out a way to say what she had left without just blurting it out. Blaise was still watching her closely, his attention doubled now that she had dropped the surname of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. How typical, she wanted to sneer.

"My father is…not my father," she finally settled on.

Blaise didn't answer, but watched her carefully, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he reached for his wine glass and took a much longer sip than before, leaving a red line behind on the glass where the wine had settled for just a little too long.

"Then…who is?" he asked. "It's not…it wasn't one of my mother's husbands, was it?" he asked, looking suddenly horrified.

"Try not to look so offended that I might be even distantly related to you through marriage," she sniffed. "My dirty Squib blood isn't anywhere close to yours."

"You know, despite the scandal that comes with producing a Squib, I've never really held grudges against them," he said, a trifle softer than before. She shrugged, wishing she had another drink. "Who is your father, Granger?" he asked.

"Evan Rosier."

Blaise's flat was (of course) a penthouse, with more open space than one man needed, and decidedly opulent. "My mother's insistence," he had protested half-heartedly when Hermione commented on the décor. Truly, there did seem to be a bit of a feminine quality to the careful placement of priceless vases and pieces of art, but Hermione didn't press further. She didn't want to talk about people's relatives anymore, or ever again. Instead, she plopped down gracelessly on the couch, and let her head fall back against the cushions, staring at the tall ceilings.

"Are you sure you want to meet him?" Blaise asked for what must have been the hundredth time. "You're not at all scared about what he's going to do? The man is the Minister for Magic. If he decides –"

"If he decides I'm a blemish on his reputation, I'm as good as dead," Hermione finished. "I know what the risks are."

"And you're still going to go through with it?" he asked incredulously. "I suppose putting you in Gryffindor was the best choice after all."

"I'm not saying it's a smart strategic move," she pointed out. "But my mother insisted that I at least let him know that I exist, even if I just end up going into hiding again."

"You could send an owl," Blaise replied.

"I could," she agreed.

He perched himself at the edge of the couch, watching her closely again, as if studying her for a tell. "But you won't?"

"Zabini, do you know why I owled you, out of all of the former Slytherins?" she asked, letting her head turn lazily in his direction. She could feel the three glasses of firewhiskey burning in her gut. "Because when we were in school, I heard you tell Malfoy that you thought I was hot. That was…how long ago?"

"It was in our sixth year, so close to seven years ago," he said with a half-smile. "You heard that?"

She swiveled her head (Merlin, it was getting heavy) to look at the rest of the flat again. "I figured, at least, your curiosity to see me would win out, and you wouldn't send my owl straight to your Dark Lord. I figured I would pique your curiosity."

"You always have, Granger," he replied, so simply that she knew it was true.

"Do I still?" she asked. He was just close enough that she could slide her hand from her side onto his thigh. He glanced down at it, and back to her, before sliding gracefully onto the couch beside her.

"Granger –"

"That's not my name," she interrupted.

"Hermione, then," he relented. "This is…not a good idea."

"You seem to have a lot of opinions about my ideas lately, Zabini," she tilted her head just enough to catch his profile in the little bit of light the room provided. "Perhaps I did owl the wrong Slytherin."

"I didn't say that," Blaise protested weakly, turning closer to her so her hand slid farther up his thigh. He still looked maddeningly calm. Hermione was suddenly filled with a rush of something akin to dislike. How dare he look completely unbothered by her hand on his leg. Did he think he was so desirable that any woman would do what she was doing now?

"Then what are you saying, Zabini, because I'm becoming very impatient," she coaxed, shifting so she was facing him completely.

"You've had quite a bit to drink –"

"So have you –"

"And what about Weasley?" he asked. "Surely he wouldn't approve."

She removed her hand from his leg and slid onto his lap. "I don't want to talk about Ron Weasley," she said firmly. "I could die tomorrow, Zabini. Don't you want to give me a night to remember?"

His hands had come to rest at her waist, his thumbs brushing just high enough to reach the underwire of her bra. "Usually we call that manipulation."

"Think of it as a negotiation," she corrected, leaning forward on his lap so she could just barely brush his cheek with her lips. "I won't tell if you won't."

His hands dropped to her thighs, where they squeezed when she exhaled a shaky breath down his neck. "Hermione –"

"Or I can go," she said, leaning back on his lap like she was going to slide off and back onto the couch. But his hands released her thighs to snake around her back and he was pulling her against his chest, kissing her with a fervor that could almost make her forget why she was here, why she had come back at all.

That's what she wanted to do, she thought as she immediately reached for his belt. She wanted to forget. Tomorrow, she could die, she could change her entire life, but tonight, tonight she didn't have to be anyone but who she wanted to be. She could feel alive.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione awoke disoriented, unsure of her surroundings. Somewhere between dreamland and consciousness, she had either been exhausted enough or preoccupied enough that her mind had decided to let go of the details of her location. It took her a few moments of paranoid sweeping glances of the room for her to remember she was in Blaise's bedroom, the black silk sheets just as ridiculous as she had pointed out the night before, the dark wood and silver accents not quite so understated that she could forget that he was privy to astronomical wealth.

She allowed herself another moment of relishing the sinfully soft bed, an amenity she had done without for far too long, before she decided to put her mind to work. Blaise was gone, though she thought she could hear some sound in another part of the flat. Surely he wouldn't have just left her there.

"Good, you're awake," Blaise leaned against the door jamb, his face impassive. "You and I have a meeting with the Minister for Magic in an hour, so perhaps you'd like to get dressed."

Hermione stifled a sigh, disappointed to be getting back to reality so soon, and reached for her clothes, strewn across the floor of the bedroom. But…they were gone.

"I disposed of your Muggle clothes," Blaise explained to her lingering hand, searching for her now distant pants. "I sent my valet out to get you a pair of robes."

"You had no right to get rid of my clothes," Hermione snapped, sitting upright indignantly, pulling the sheet with her.

Blaise shrugged and pulled his teacup up to his lips. "I figured you would want to make a statement to the press and to your father by walking into the Ministry in your Muggle clothes, but trust me when I say that is not a statement you want to make, nor is it a statement you can take back."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "This has nothing to do with a bloody statement, those were my clothes!"

"And now you will have robes befitting your new blood status," Blaise intoned. "There's tea in the kitchen, and if you're…shy," he allowed a smirk to take over his face for just a moment, "there's a robe in that armoire."

"Bloody prat," she muttered, slipping the robe over her shoulders.

There was indeed tea in the kitchen, as well as a spread of fruit and croissants. It was so aesthetically pleasing that Hermione, for a moment, could not shake the mental picture of Blaise meticulously arranging it while she slept. Truthfully, it was probably the nameless valet that had done it, but she preferred the idea of Blaise.

"If I may ask –" in the time it had taken her to slip on a robe and plod her way down the hallway, Blaise had changed into a pair of dark green dress robes with a rich, golden tie, just barely visible under the fastening of the robe, "how do you plan to justify your sudden appearance to your father?"

Hermione shrugged, pushing a grape into her mouth. "I think I'll just tell him the truth," she said.

"Are you prepared to answer questions about your mother?" Blaise asked, sliding a tray of sugar cubes over the marble counter and into her reach. "About her location?"

"I –"

"Minister Rosier fathered you out of wedlock," Blaise continued. "In pureblood society, if you have sex with someone and you get them pregnant, not only are you a complete imbecile, but you are bound by a life. The pressure to marry after an instance like that is insurmountable. But instead of marrying Rosier, your mother ran. Surely she had a reason."

Hermione had already thought about this too much to want to think about it again. "She never told it to me."

"And you never asked?" Blaise pressed. "You, the woman with the most questions I've ever known –"

"It was a bit of a shock, alright?" she snapped. "I wasn't even sure she was telling the truth."

"So why are you really here, then?" he asked.

Hermione paused, her hand just barely touching the next grape she planned to eat. "Not sure that's something you want me to reveal to you," she said carefully. "You're going to think I'm lying."

"Truthfully, Granger –," he faltered at the scowl on her face, "Hermione, most of the time I imagine you're far too intelligent to even consider deception."

"I would be stupid to never consider deception, Zabini," she said easily. "Despite the – disgust – I feel for the current regime, Rosier is my father. I've been living in Sweden for almost six years. Have you ever been to Sweden?"

"I have never had the pleasure."

"It's miserable," she said firmly. "There is no magical community there, no city like Wizarding London. We are hiding there as much as we would be hiding here. I spent my entire life separated from my heritage, and now I know why, and it wasn't because I didn't have any. If there is a place for me in this new place, in this new world, then I want to be in it. No matter what I have to sacrifice, or how many times I have to hold my tongue."

Blaise stared at her for a long time, searching her face systematically for a lie. Finally, the deep chime of his front door shook him from his reverie and he retreated, leaving Hermione to her tea so he could answer the door.

He returned a few moments later, carrying a wooden hanger and a set of deep blue dress robes.

"You should get dressed," he said softly, passing them over to her. "We have that meeting."

She took the hanger, still surveying the clothes. "Do you think they'll ever let me bring my friends back here?" she asked, and suddenly, Blaise was looking down at the girl he knew from Hogwarts, defiant but terrified, strong but unsure.

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

So much had changed while she was gone, Hermione reflected as Blaise ushered her through the crowd in the Atrium. The huge fountain the middle of the marble floor seemed larger than before, the faces of the squashed Muggles, goblins, and house elves even more grotesque than she remembered. She recognized several faces as she moved through the crowd, trying to keep her head down, but what astounded her more was how…unbothered people seemed to be.

Didn't they know they were complicit in thousands of deaths? Didn't they know they had given up?

But how was she any different now, walking into the lion's den with her soft neck bared, waiting to see if it would be ripped out or spared? Was she just as bad?

She wondered, as Blaise crowded her into the lift, if Harry and Ron would believe her if she managed to get an owl to them. Would they understand why she left in the middle of the night without even a note? Would they hate her forever? Ron probably would, he could never control his temper. Harry might understand, if she worded it the right way. One day, maybe, if she managed to find a place for herself in this new Wizarding age, they could all be together again.

"Hermione," Blaise's voice was just insistent enough that she knew immediately that he had called her more than once before. "Stay focused."

"I am focused," she muttered stiffly.

The lift clattered to a stop, and Blaise pushed her out, past the witch with bright pink robes, past the wizard with galoshes inexplicably attached to his feet, and into the quiet, sterile corridor that led to the Minister's office.

"Just so we are absolutely clear," Blaise hissed out of the corner of his mouth, "you are absolutely certain this is what you want to do?"

She glanced back up at him, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. "What's the matter, Zabini? Afraid for me?"

"Afraid for _me_ , more like," he admitted. "I know you can handle this yourself."

"Zabini, what a pleasant surprise to see you up on this floor," his voice was as unwelcome as it was familiar, and Hermione considered, for a wild moment, ducking behind Blaise's back to avoid being spotted. "Granger? What the –"

"Careful, Draco, we have a meeting for which we are about to be tardy," Blaise said, almost dismissively. "I would be happy to fill you in when we are finished."

"I thought you were in Stockholm," Draco directed to Hermione, his voice cool but not as harsh as she expected. She chanced a glance at him, unsurprised to see him largely unchanged. His figure was still wiry, thin, and too pale to be healthy, but he was looking down at her with curiosity more than disgust.

"Apparently I am in Stockholm no longer," she replied evenly.

"I always knew one of you would come over to our side eventually," Draco tilted his head in what could almost be a gentlemanly bow. "I certainly never thought it would be you. Curious."

"We really must be going –" Blaise was motioning forward, toward the Minister's office, and Draco's eyes were following his trajectory.

"You know He will want to hear about this," Draco jutted his chin at Hermione. "Do not keep it a secret for long, or He will fear you have something to hide."

"I am a transparent window," Blaise said obliquely. "My flat in two hours," he muttered over his shoulder as Draco passed. Draco didn't even pause in his exit to acknowledge the message, and Hermione was left wondering exactly how much Blaise would reveal to his childhood friend in two hours, if they were both even alive in two hours.

"The Minister will see you," Astoria Greengrass, as pale, as upright and delicately beautiful as ever, as already standing when they reached her, her hand extended toward a black door with a gilded handle, already ajar. Blaise gave her a nod of acknowledgement and stepped through the door first.

"Mr. Minister, if I may present Miss Hermione Granger," he was suddenly the paragon of pureblood society, and Hermione stepped through the door, aware that she felt almost immediately several degrees colder, and wondered just how unmanageable the mire of pureblood politics would be.

Evan Rosier had her nose, she noticed as she took in his face for the first time. He stood far taller than she, almost head and shoulders above her, his back straight, his lips pursed into almost a smile, though predatory or purely polite, she could not discern.

"Miss Granger, have a seat," he was all business, just firm enough that Hermione never thought to disobey him. Unabashedly, she examined his face, the planes of his cheekbones that she could see a hint of in her own visage, his short cropped hair that looked to be completely different from her own. His hands, long, thin fingers, were similarly shaped to her own hands, clenched tightly in her lap. He was studying her as well, though far more intensely than she hoped. Perhaps she had made a mistake coming here.

"Perhaps you can tell me how this came to be," Rosier directed at Blaise, still standing.

"Mr. Minister, if I may –" Hermione interrupted. Rosier turned to her, his eyes narrowed and critical. She faltered for just a moment, unsure if he would let her interrupt, pureblood propriety and all. "I came to Wizarding London with the intent to speak with you, and I was found and captured by Mr. Zabini, who, after hearing my story, treated me with great respect."

"Did he now?" Rosier let his eyes flicker over to Blaise just once, enough to force his shoulders to wither just a bit. "So you have shared your story with him?"

"Only a few details," Hermione skirted, avoiding the loaded question. "Just enough to entice him to bring me to you."

Rosier's face hardened. "You let a war criminal into the Ministry with no blindfold, no enchantments, no precautions, while she was still in possession of her wand?" Rosier asked, finally turning his gaze more completely to Blaise. "Perhaps these years of peace have made you soft. I'm sure we can fix that."

"Mr. Zabini never took my wand or harmed me because he knew my intent was to join you," Hermione said quickly, averting her eyes from Blaise's blanched face. Rosier turned his gaze to her, his eyes still full of the fury he had just unleashed on Blaise. It withered a bit as curiosity took over.

"To join me?" Rosier repeated. "Perhaps you have me confused with the Dark Lord, Miss Granger, I am not the one to whom you swear allegiance." He was flattered by the word choice, she could hear it in the softened edges of his voice. Good.

"Unless I am confused about pureblood traditions, I am meant to swear allegiance and obedience to you, Minister, as my father," she blurted it out in a rush. She wanted to curse herself; she had been so collected just a moment before, her plan unfolding just as she wanted it to. She could not let nerves overtake her now. The silence stretched so long she wondered if he could even decipher her blathering.

It seemed he did understand her. He turned his gaze up to Blaise, his hand reaching for his wand, just to the left of his hand. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Does the name Penelope Parkinson mean anything to you?" Hermione asked.

"Interrupt me again and I will open that brilliant mind of yours instead of allowing you to speak," Rosier snapped, and even though he didn't so much as rise from his seat, she felt herself and Blaise shift, trying not to cower, not to show weakness. "How do you know the name Penelope Parkinson?"

"She is my mother," Hermione said, making sure to keep her tone measured, despite the way her wand hand twitched to protect herself, to protect Blaise. "She went into hiding when she learned she was pregnant, and married a Muggle to hide her shame. I only learned of my real parentage a few days ago."

"And instead of staying by your mother, you decided to come extort your supposed father?" Rosier asked. "Seems a little poorly planned for the brightest witch of her age."

"My mother lied to me," Hermione replied coolly. "My father, the man who pretended to be my father, lied to me my entire life. They let me face persecution, bullying, and torture for being a Muggleborn even though they knew I wasn't one. They let me fight a war against my own family."

"So you've forsaken your mother, is that it?" Rosier asked, leaning forward at his desk just enough that Hermione felt his presence loom ever closer, ever more threatening.

"I came to learn about who I am," she replied simply.

Rosier seemed marginally satisfied with that response. "And what about your…little friends? Potter? Weasley?"

"I left in the middle of the night, and left no note," she said truthfully. "By now, they probably think I've been captured, or murdered."

"But not fled?"

"Harry and Ron will never understand," she said, aware that she sounded like she was pleading. "They have always known who they were. They have always felt at home with each other, with the families they've had and created. I have never had that," she glanced back at Blaise, just enough to make sure he was still there. "But I never told them that I felt lost, that I couldn't understand parts of myself. And now, I do."

"After one meeting?" Rosier asked, incredulity clouding his features. "That's a little much, don't you think?"

"Take no offense, Minister, but meeting you wasn't an epiphany," Hermione leaned back in her seat, allowing her tone to relax, her shoulders to drop. She knew how to play him now; all she had to do was follow through. "It was knowing that the power I felt, the magic in my blood, was not a fluke, but my birthright."

"Well, Miss…Granger," Rosier nodded up at Blaise, who stepped forward immediately. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but I cannot take your words at face value. I must confirm what you have said myself."

She had expected as much. "Of course," she said, inclining her head the way she had just seen Malfoy do out in the hall.

"You will stay with Mr. Zabini tonight, and tomorrow, I will send for you," he was dismissing them, Blaise's extended hand to help her up from her seat was an unnecessary cue. "Make sure she knows what is expected of her," he directed to Blaise, who nodded.

"It was nice to meet you, Miss Granger," Rosier said as they slipped through the door. "It's nice to finally put a name to the reputation."

She wasn't sure what that meant, but Blaise's hand tightened around her own, and suddenly the door was closed and she could breathe a little easier.


End file.
